


Until First Blood Is Drawn

by Dafna536



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 13:17:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14853474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dafna536/pseuds/Dafna536
Summary: After the trial Jim comes to Sherlock's flat.





	Until First Blood Is Drawn

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [До первой крови](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/387489) by Seras Moran. 



> English is not my native language. I would be very grateful if someone helps me check this text for mistakes.

"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock asks in a perfectly calm voice. He tightens his mouth, cuts off all the questions running through his head, not a single guess escaping his lips.

"I want to solve the problem ..." Jim, no matter how much he tries, can’t take his eyes off Holmes, and, angered, puts too much effort in cutting the apple, the knife slips off and he jerks his hand away in pain.

"Our final problem," he says, dropping the apple, and extends the slashed arm sideways so that blood would not spoil his light-colored suit. "F-fuck ..."

For a couple of seconds Jim watches as his blood is dropping down, drenching the carpet. Black dots start dancing in front of his eyes and he forces himself to look away.

"I'll get the first-aid kit if you don’t mind." Sherlock rises to his feet and for some reason asks. "Jim?"

Jim forces a smile and nods, Sherlock walks into the kitchen immediately. Meanwhile the queasiness gradually fades, he looks at his hand again with curiosity and disgust: the cut is still bleeding, and the palm is sending sparks of pain with every movement. He should have refused the help, ended the conversation, bandaged the wound with a handkerchief not to leave any more traces of his helplessness across this apartment’s floor and walked away.

Sherlock returns with a shabby box in his hands, sniffs in irritation, scattering awkwardly through all sorts of stuff in search of peroxide and bandages. He almost sweeps their cups and a teapot to the floor but catches the tray in the last moment and puts it on a shelf. There must be the same mess in his head right now, as in this medicine box. Jim grins: for the first time he has managed to catch a glimpse of the ugly underside, hiding behind the facade of Sherlock’s elegant suits and smooth thoughts. He moves to the edge of the chair, rolls up his sleeve and extends his hand over the table.

Meanwhile Sherlock finds everything he needs, he takes Jim’s wrist and freezes, as if waiting for him to pull away. Jim doesn’t, on the contrary, he relaxes into the touch ― so careful it almost doesn’t cause any pain. He endures the cut being washed with peroxide, occasionally hisses through clenched teeth when Sherlock bandages his hand too tight. He is uncomfortable, but at the same time he wants these minutes to last longer so that he can capture them in his memory down to every single touch.

Sherlock ties the ends of a virgin-white bandage a bit more slowly than a common neatness would require and then holds Jim's hand in his own instead of just letting go. A fragile moment stretches like rubber, nearly to the verge of bursting, exploding with pain in the temples, where Jim's migraine is slowly budding, scattered into pieces to be never put together again, to the point of no return.

“Are you afraid of me?” Jim whispers, his thumb stroking Sherlock's hand soothingly. Sherlock shakes his head ― too fast to be deceived.

"Of course not," Jim breathes out, his fingertips drawing cautious circles on Sherlock’s wrist above his pulse point. Sherlock tugs his lips into a nervous smile.

Maybe Jim himself would find courage to think of a new solution to their final problem.

Maybe the duel would only last until first blood is drawn.


End file.
